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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223811">Days Yet To Come</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned'>FictionPenned</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alex asked why we even have this lever, Other, ThoscheiLockdown2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:34:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Booted feet tap the floor as the doors swing shut behind her, and across the room, the Master’s fallen figure on the floor shifts. Worry clenches her heart, and she moves quickly, spinning around to a hidden cabinet and scrutinizing its contents. “You shouldn’t move. Got a thing that’ll help somewhere. Love a thing.... and would love to know where I put the thing…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Master groans. “Of all the people who could have possibly picked me up, of course it had to be you.”</em>
</p><p><em>“You’re lucky it was me,” the Doctor corrects with a small sniff. She spins and crouches, opening a hideaway in the floor. “Not many medical facilities are equipped to handle Time Lord biology. The wrong person with the wrong ideas could kill you.” She would know. She once regenerated on a hospital table, surrounded by people who meant well but didn’t know any better. </em><br/> </p><p>Response to the prompt "13 and Dhawan!Master hurt/comfort, where the Master gets hurt and 13 takes care of him" for Thoschei Lockdown Exchange 2020</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Thoschei Lockdown The First 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Days Yet To Come</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raindropsonwhiskers/gifts">Raindropsonwhiskers</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Doctor’s fingers shake and tense as she presses her palms into an open wound. Blood coats her hands a bright crimson that stands in stark contrast to purple plaid newly stained reddish-brown. For a fleeting moment, her anger at the Master is forgotten, washed away by fear and concern. He is the last remaining thread anchoring her to her history, and as ugly as that history may be, she cannot stand idly by and let it die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her vision blurs beneath a salty haze of tears, red and purple and brown swirling together into an indistinguishable mess. “I can’t just leave him here,” she says, desperation shredding the words as they leave her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three pairs of feet remain firmly planted in the dirt, unmoved by her pain. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Please. Just help me carry him to the TARDIS. I’ll drop you lot home. You don’t have to see him.” the Doctor’s neck cranes upward, watering eyes appealing to each and every one of her companions, speaking of grief and sorrow and a friendship so ancient as to be utterly incomprehensible. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Just this once. For me.”</span>
  <em>
    <span> For the last two left. For the promises of days past and days yet to come. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, those stubborn feet shift. Timid, shaking hands support limp limbs and open doors, but they refuse to take him any further than the console room. That’s fine. It’s better than nothing, and the Doctor has perilously little to work with right now. She’ll take what she can get. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>As promised, the Time Lord drops the humans back home and a standing invitation to call her if they hit a spot of trouble. The trio murmurs their vague acknowledgements, but none of them dare to meet her eyes. An apology sits perched on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it back and disappears back into the old blue box in a stormy swirl of coattails, leaving her fam behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booted feet tap the floor as the doors swing shut behind her, and across the room, the Master’s fallen figure on the floor shifts. Worry clenches her heart, and she moves quickly to compensate, spinning around to a hidden cabinet and scrutinizing its contents. “You shouldn’t move. Got a thing that’ll help somewhere. Love a thing.... and would </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know where I put the thing…”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Master groans. “Of all the people who could have possibly picked me up, of course it had to be you.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was me,” the Doctor corrects with a small sniff. She spins and crouches, opening a hideaway in the floor. “Not many medical facilities are equipped to handle Time Lord biology. The wrong person with the wrong ideas could kill you.” She would know. She once regenerated on a hospital table, surrounded by people who meant well but didn’t know any better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha! Found it!” she declares a moment later, cradling a small metal kit in her palm. It’s been tucked away for several centuries -- shuffled around whenever the TARDIS redecorates or one friend or another takes the initiative to do a deep clean -- but she has never had the occasion to use it. She tends to be the only Time Lord in attendance on this ship, and when she gets seriously wounded, she almost always regenerates. The exception, of course, from the one time that she and the fam encountered a sonic mine and were swept up by Tsuranga, but they were separated from the TARDIS and this little kit anyway. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Doctor slides the cover of the compartment back in place with the toe of her boot before crossing the room and plopping down on the ground beside the Master, who eyes her with an enormous amount of wariness.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“D’ya mind?” she says, gesturing at first her own torso and then, upon realizing that that was unclear, at his. She could unbutton his vest and shirt herself, but that feels oddly invasive and far too intimate. It's better if he does it himself.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You know,” the Master says through gritted teeth as his shaking fingers begin work on his buttons, “There is a far easier way to deal with this.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Doctor looks at him in confusion, raising a delicately curved eyebrow in an unspoken question. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He takes a deep, shuddering breath and makes a whooshing boom of a sound with his mouth, hands abandoning their task to mime an explosion. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Green eyes harden. “No. Absolutely not.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The sheer recklessness of the suggestion lights a fire under her, burning her lingering fear away, and she sets to work on his buttons herself, working through them far more quickly than he could have ever possibly managed in his current conditions. For a moment, she is tempted to mock him for wearing so many layers, but the weight on her shoulders reminds her of two shirts and a set of bracers and a coat, and she bites her tongue. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Why not?” he asks, soldiering on despite her discomfort. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You can’t regenerate in here. Puts us both at risk. Plus, the TARDIS only </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> redecorated. She’ll be so put out if you ruined it.” Wincing in sympathy, she gradually peels back his shirt. Every movement is slow and deliberate as she fights to keep from further disturbing the wound that cuts into his side.  </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Master settles back against the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I don’t have any left. I'd need one of yours, not that it makes much of a difference. They all came from you.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“We’re not talking about that. Not now.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hopefully not ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she adds silently. It is difficult to come to terms with the fact that her history and her identity were stolen from her, and she most certainly does not wish to have those conversations with a man who met those truths with nothing but unbridled rage. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>She pops the latch on the side of the kit and pulls out a small rectangle of plastic-wrapped mesh. It looks like metal, but it shifts color as she pulls the wrapping off -- moving between green and tan and yellow and back again -- and flexes with a consistency that more closely resembles clay. It’s a beautiful piece of technology, and though she holds no small amount of resentment for the subject, she is glad that it is finally seeing some use. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Bracing her tongue between her teeth as she concentrates, the Doctor lines the mesh’s grain up with the angle of the gash, making absolutely certain that she has aligned it correctly before placing it on the wound. Almost as soon as it comes into contact with blood and the warmth of his body, it contracts, pulling tight, tugging the skin back together, and closing any gaps that might permit continued blood loss. It is hardly a cure, but it will hold him together long enough that he doesn’t die. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Master’s back arches with pain, and an angry growl rips through his throat. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Reflexively, the Doctor scrambles backwards, moving out of range. The Master is unpredictable on his best days and malicious on his worst. Even given his current physical state, it is difficult to tell where this day falls. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>After a lengthy pause, face contorted in pain, the fallen Time Lord manages to force out a sentence. “You didn’t tell me it was going to hurt.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Didn’t I? Meant to.” The Doctor reaches forward, blonde hair falling over her face as she picks up the small metal box, snapping it closed with a restless flick of her wrist. “Doesn’t matter. Hurts less than dying.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Silence falls between them. They both know what it feels like to die, how it feels to have every cell in your body violently torn apart before being reconfigured into something new. Regeneration is never a pleasant process, especially when done outside of the controlled environment of Gallifrey. There are no sick beds for renegades, no attendants, nothing to dull the fire before it rips through them. Renegades get only pain and death and the vague promise of eternity. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Master may resent the fact that she refused to gift him a regeneration, but this is the kinder option. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Their gazes meet, both sets of eyes reflecting the warm glow of the console room. For a series of heartbeats, that locked gaze is the only thing in the universe that matters. There are entire worlds within their eyes, and it would take an entire lifetime to understand their intricacies. The Doctor desperately wishes that their paths progressed differently. She would have loved to have the chance to explore those worlds together, to understand the landscape of the mind that captivated her from the very first moment they met.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Master breaks the silence first. “What happens now? Are you going to throw me out? Just another piece of litter on some forgotten planet?” he asks, lip curling in a sneer that speaks less of derision than of defensiveness. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Doctor contemplates the question, sentimentality lingering in her mind and on her tongue. It clouds her decision. “No. You can stay until that’s healed,” she says, nodding in the direction of the artificially sealed wound. “And then we can go from there. Can’t speak for the TARDIS though, so you’re not allowed to break anything. She’s been known to throw offenders out herself. Never listens to me, the TARDIS.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>A hint of a smile flickers across the Master’s face -- there and gone so quickly that it could be dismissed as a trick of the light. “You’re going soft in your old age, Doctor.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pfft</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’ve always been soft. Come on. Let’s find you a room.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The Doctor stands, reaching out a hand to help her old friend to his feet.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span>After a moment of hesitation, he accepts. </span>
  <span></span><br/>
</p>
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